


Six Shots and a Double Dose

by astudyinlestrade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinlestrade/pseuds/astudyinlestrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Lestrade's relationship turns sour, and Mycroft can't help but blame it on himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't get me wrong; Mystrade is my OTP. I just wondered what would happen if Mystrade went wrong, and this is what my twisted mind conjured up.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked. I apologize for any errors. As much as I would love to, I don't own Mycroft or Lestrade. They belong to the geniuses Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

Aprons. So ridiculous-looking. Yet so helpful. I mustn't spill even a single drop of this coq au vin I'm making – my beloved's favorite – on my suit. Oh, how frightfully enraged he'd be! And such a fool I'd make of myself. Can't even take care of my attire? I can put myself together for the Prime Minister, but I can't even put myself together for my love? What kind of a boyfriend would I be then?

Er…no matter. Mustn't let my mind wander. No good can come from that, can it? What's the time? Oh! My love was expected home from work at the Yard over two hours ago...must have gone to the pub again. He drinks a frightfully large amount of alcohol, which I've grown to detest. As long as he hasn't taken to the white powder again, I'm satisfied.

Actually, I'm rather satisfied with him no matter what he does. He works hard; those murder cases themselves are a right bother to deal with, as is Sherlock. It's the only reason he spends the majority of his time after work at the pub, then occasionally comes home for dinner. Some nights, he just drives from the pub to the Yard, changes his shirt, and sleeps at his desk. The bed gets so lonely those days…

Ah, yes, here he comes now! Bugger, I haven't even finished the coq au vin!

He's fumbling with the keys, he's stumbling into the flat – his uneven footsteps give that away quite clearly – and he's gripping the wall for support. The flat reeks of alcohol – what is it today…gin and vodka, I believe. No, just vodka. How many… five? Six? Six. Six shots of vodka.

"Good evening, my dear!" I call from the kitchen, stirring the contents of the pot on the stove.

No reply.

"Gregory? Are you all right?"

No response to that either.

I abandon the food on the stove and rush out to see how he is. He has – thankfully – hobbled over and lied down on the sofa. I walk over, place my hand on his forehead, and run my fingers through his silver hair. I crouch down beside him and take his hand.

"Love, are you feeling all right?"

He opens his eyes and stared at the ceiling, then at me. He rolls his eyes, as if disgusted with me, and turns his head away from me. The whole time, I am staring at his eyes. His tired, bloodshot eyes. He starts sniffing and sits up.

"I-Ish that c-c-coq au vin? Thash my favo-fa-favorite!" His lips crack into a smile, the kind of smile I'd do anything to see. The kind of smile that makes all of my efforts worth it. The kind of smile that makes my hatred of anything he does disappear into thin air. The kind of smile that I would – and have – with pleasure pick apart men with nothing but a scalpel to see when I come home. The kind of smile that reminds me why I love my dear Gregory.

"For you, my sweet." I lean forward and plant a light kiss on his lips. Vodka and lots of it. I was right. I also taste a small amount of cocaine on his upper lip. Twice the usual amount. So that comes to…six shots of vodka and a double dose of cocaine. Oh dear god.

I take a moment and look into his deep brown eyes. Someday, I promise myself, I'll help him get through this. We'll make it out of this. Someday.

He starts sniffing the air again. His eyebrows wrinkle and his lips come together into a frown. Oh, no. I know that face too well. I have done something that upset him. I start sniffing the air too, and I find my answer.

My coq au vin is burning.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

I let go of his hand and run into the kitchen, turn off the stove, and get to work scraping the burnt food off the bottom of the pot and into the trash. I hear him hobble his way into the kitchen behind me, steadying himself with the walls and doorframes.

"Wash the matter with you, eh? Who the hell jush leavsh food 'round on the shtove? A bloody idiot, thash who!"

I can see the fury and the disappointment in his eyes.

I am so sorry, my love.

"I'm so sorry, Gregory. It's just…I was helping you, and—"

"Help? I didn't need your help! I wash FINE!"

"Dear, you were…incapacitated, and I was worried, and—"

"Incapashitated? INCAPASHITATED? Me? Incapashitated?" He stumbles over to the rubbish bin, grabs my shoulders, and spins me around to face him. The pot and scrub slip out of my hand and into the bin.

He shoves me over to an area of tiled wall that [fortunately] didn't have a cabinet or a counter protruding from it and pins me to it sideways. My head slams into the wall, and just as I begin to wince in pain from the blow, one of his hands pushes my cheek into the wall.

"I'm so sorry, Gregory! Please forgive me!" I am begging, almost to the point of sobbing. My enemies have broken my fingers one by one, stacked bricks upon my chest, and branded my bare back without so much as a whimper from me. But only my darling can hurt me, make me beg, bring me to tears. Only him.

"If I wash incapashitated, could I do this?" His warm knuckles come down hard on my eye. The pain travels straight to my heart.

He finally lets go of me, and I slump to the floor, bottom lip quivering. I am a sorry sight, and I know it.

You're hurting me again, my love.

He gives my figure a swift kick, eliciting more screams from me. "You're hurting me, Greg. Stop it please!"

He makes his way to the front door. Before opening it, he turns around and faces me. "Shtop worrying about me, I can take care of myshelf, thanksh. You need to man up. You're lucky you even have me to care for you. Without me, you're just a panshy!" He opens the door, steps out into the evening chill, and slams the door shut behind him.

I do something I have never done before. I sit against the wall, tuck my knees into my body, place my forehead on my knees, and weep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why did Greg start drinking, anyway? And why isn't Mycroft doing anything to stop it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get me wrong; Mystrade is my OTP. I just wondered what would happen if Mystrade went wrong, and this is what my twisted mind conjured up.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked. I apologize for any errors. As much as I would love to, I don't own Mycroft or Lestrade. They belong to the geniuses Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

It wasn't always like this.

If it weren't for those thickheaded Russians who just wouldn't listen to me, forcing me to stay an extra three weeks.

Bringing the grand total of the trip up to six whole weeks.

And not a single word to my Gregory for the entirety of the conference.

Hell, quite literally.

I could blame it on Anthea as well, but that would not improve the situation in any way. Anthea's assistance and guidance was just as it always is: loyal, well-meaning, practical, and without it, I would have probably been pummeled to a pulp, further escalating the problem.

Though I fail to see how the current situation could be any worse.

She suggested that I not take my personal cell phone with me, and that I keep my business phone switched off and not on my person.

Perfectly reasonable.

Except that I couldn't talk to Gregory.

Originally, it wasn't much cause for concern; I had clearly told him that I would return in three weeks' time. Sharp. At his doorstep in three weeks.

But those damned Russians!

They locked me in their "conference room" – I believe the phrase "dark shady basement" would be infinitely more appropriate to describe my settings – for six weeks. I lived on nothing but meager sustenance intended to keep me at minimal consciousness, harsh questioning when they wanted to wrench information out of me, and much physical and psychological torture when I did not provide them with the information they desired.

They had locked Anthea, and therefore any hope of communication, inside a nearby hotel. She immediately called my emergency support system and described our current positions.

I would have been able to easily use physical force to fight my way out of the basement, but I was handcuffed to a pillar, limbs tied to metal loops riveted into the wall, and a spreader bar which tested the limits of my flexibility [thank goodness for the day Anthea suggested I take up yoga to maintain my temper and my waistline]. I'm sure even Harry Houdini would have spent a sufficient amount of time attempting to escape from the conditions I was placed in.

I did not say a word. I did not cry or scream or even whimper as they whipped my torso, punched my jaw, and even branded my back. Eventually, my support team arrived, far too late. I was able to escape the building, barely conscious. My team cleaned up the situation the best that they could, and even had the Russian government pay reparations for what their brutes had done to me.

I returned to my office, cleaned myself up and made sure I looked presentable. Every single trace of what happened had to be covered up and taken care of. I walked into our flat with open arms, waiting to hold my favorite D.I. once more.

Instead, he walks up to me, a slobbering mess, and slaps my cheek with enough strength to knock out a tooth. He shouts a "Mycroft _fucking_ Holmes! How the bloody hell could you leave me like that and saunter back in and expect me to come near you again? What kinda game are you playing?"

My otherwise superb support team had failed to complete the most important task. I had specifically instructed them to do this task if my international stays are extended for more than one week past the planned return date. I had asked them to inform Gregory.

He had no idea.

For six weeks, he was left in the dark.

His reaction was entirely understandable…though, I would have expected him to have been worried sick about me and hold me and be glad that I'm back and that I'm safe. But he had been drinking excessively, and for a drunk, his reaction was...reasonable.

He thought I had left him.

Gregory, why would I ever do that?

I love you, dearest.

Do you love me?

Why did you do such things to yourself? Out of love or out of anger?

Well, no matter what it may be, I cannot have you subjecting yourself to such torture and ingesting this poison.

Anything you do that harms yourself, harms me more. Just remember that.

One day, I will tell you when you are sober. If you understand me, you will want to put an end to it too.

But I haven't seen you sober since before that Russia trip.

My dear, that was over three months ago.

No matter. We will get through this. I just have to put aside my busy schedule, visit you at work, where you are guaranteed to be sober, and discuss these things, yes?

I frankly don't care how many times you scream at me or punch me or slap me or kick me. I will endure it. I will endure the suffering of seeing you destroying your longevity – and therefore, the time we have together – every single night. I will endure the pain of seeing you unhappy with everything I try to do for you. I will endure the pure agony of observing as alcohol and cocaine rip the best thing that has ever happened to me from my arms and take him over completely. I will endure all of these things for us.

I will stand by you no matter how many times you try to push me away.

I will always be there for you, whether you like it or not.

Why?

Because this is what you did to me, Gregory Lestrade. You made me fall in love with you. I cannot leave you, not now. I would never see the light again if I left you, or if you left me.

One day, this will all be merely a part of the past. A part of _our_ past. So, endure as I am enduring. That is all I ask of you.

Just…wait. I will help you.

That is my only wish.


End file.
